


The Pursuit of Happiness

by falsteloj



Category: Young Dracula
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsteloj/pseuds/falsteloj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About growing up, and moving on.</p><p>(I have a ton more YD stuff - you can find story summaries, etc, by clicking <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/512861/chapters/27201609">HERE</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pursuit of Happiness

Mothers were embarrassing, his more so than most. She insisted on showing people photographs of him as a kid with his stuffed pink bunny rabbit, and kissing him on the cheek in the middle of the high street.

She never knocked before entering, volunteered him to help out with Cub Scouts, and when Vlad upped sticks and disappeared one day, her comforting smiles were always far too knowing.

Robin still thought, as the ceremony came to an end, and his relatives started drifting back towards the car park, that none of it had really mattered.

If his mam could be there once more, even just to nag him, he'd give anything.

Instead he stood there, numb and silent, until the rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and Mrs Davies from number 49 came and led him away, and told him that it was hard now, but things would get better.

Perhaps things would, but in the weeks that followed there was no sign of it. She had been ill for years, his mam, until all her hair had fallen out and they had had no choice but to take her into hospital. All of them had spent as much time as they could there, and he had been far too preoccupied to notice whether or not the rubbish had been taken out or his school shirt had been ironed.

Now things were starting to be different, but his dad couldn't make himself do anything, and there was no point in switching the business phone on, because nobody rang it anyway.

Mrs Harker called him into her office for a second time, to say that she was so very sorry, and that she was worried, and wouldn't he like to talk about it to someone? He had tried that already, before Mrs Van Helsing moved away, and as there wasn't anything new to add he shook his head and trudged back to his lessons.

Mina, as she had insisted he call her, had told him that it wasn't his fault, and that if he reached out to people, they would welcome him. He wanted to tell her about Vlad, not about vampires or the crown, because he didn't want to be locked up in an asylum, but about how it had felt when he abandoned him. About how awful school was on his own, with nobody to talk to and nobody to sit with. About the pushing and the shoving and the name calling. But Mr Van Helsing was attacked by a group of yobs they never caught, and Mina went on compassionate leave, and by the time her replacement took over all his records had been mislaid somewhere.

Rumours started to circulate then. Horrible tales of what was wrong with his mother, and breathless warnings that whatever it was, it was catching. He had spat the truth out to Price, the next time he caught him in the boys' bathroom, as menacing as he'd always been. Price simply laughed, took his lunch money, and told him that it was because 'she can't stand you either, Branagh.'

They scuffled, and Price won, and he wandered aimlessly until he reached the ledge of the bridge there was always flowers laid against. He stood there, staring, for what must have been hours, but when the police came and realized from his pained hiss that his arm was broken he told them that he had slipped, and that it had been an accident.

There was a special assembly, he was told, and Price was suspended. His teachers tiptoed around him, and some of his classmates looked at him differently; pitying. He didn't notice, didn't care, just concentrated on not bursting into tears when his mam took his hand and told him in a death rattle,

"Whatever you choose to do, I'll be proud of you. So long as you're happy, Robin."

Chloe dealt with it by burying her head in her schoolwork. The twins took it out on their rugby training. His dad wasn't coping at all, and Robin just felt disconnected, and woke every night sweating and shaking, from dreams he couldn't quite remember.

They made him doubt himself, made him wonder if he really did remember or if, perhaps, the boys at school were right and he really was a nutjob. He tried to talk about it with Chloe, to ask her what she had thought of Vlad, of his family. She understood, he knew, but her expression was pinched when she answered,

"There's no point in dredging up the past, Robin. Don't you think dad's got enough to deal with?"

She was right, she always was. It hit him that morning as he stumbled down the stairs and took in his surroundings with fresh eyes. The brightly coloured walls his mam had so loved were faded, and the wallpaper in the hallway was peeling. The carpets were stained, and the kitchen was stacked high with old newspapers and dirty crockery. The work surfaces were thick with grease, and there was dust covering all his mam's favourite ornaments.

Back in his own bedroom he was surprised at the state of his school uniform, and the crumpled mock exam papers lying uncompleted in his schoolbag. It didn't seem possible that so much time had passed. It didn't seem real, any of it.

He sat his exams, one after the other, and fought not to shrug off the hand his head of year put on his shoulder, as she told him he could resit them anywhere, if he explained his circumstances. At home he opened the windows, and Chloe did the washing up. Ian put the hoover around, and Paul started sorting through the piles of rubbish, the empty take away cartons and the mountain of unopened post they had accumulated.

It was only then that any of them realized just how bad things really were, and that it didn't matter how many final demands they were sent there was no money to pay them. His dad accepted the news in silence, rubbed a hand over his unkempt face and left the room without saying anything. Robin hated him in that moment, for not being strong enough. For not being able to prevent it happening.

Later he felt guilty, sick with it, enough to make tea and promise to try and resit his GCSEs.

"You're a good boy, Robin," his dad told him, looking hunched in and older, and Robin didn't know what he felt but he tore all the posters down from his bedroom walls, and threw the clothes from his wardrobe and the books from his bookcase.

He didn't feel any better for it.

Chloe helped him, more patiently than he could ever hope to be, and he scraped passes, enough to be accepted on the course and to start a plumbing apprenticeship.

"I never thought you'd go for this," Jonno said to him when they bumped into each other in the High Street, dressed like something out of an old action movie. Robin was too busy thinking about he must look himself, in his ugly polo shirt, and how his shoulders ached, and how sick he was of being selfless already. "Have you heard from Vlad recently?" Jonno asked, no doubt scraping the barrel for something to say, and Robin shook his head and almost meant it when he said,

"I don't want to."

The call came when they most needed it, from a man his dad had used to run a scout troop with. The job was miles away, and would likely take weeks, but it would pay well and, right now, that was the only thing that mattered.

Ian drove the first half of the journey, and Paul the second. Robin double checked the toolkit and the material checklist, and all three of them pretended they couldn't smell the drink on their father's breath. They didn't say a word about it when they rang home to Chloe, and subtly poured the bottle they found down the sink in the bathroom.

Sometimes, honesty really wasn't the best policy.

Garside Grange was even posher than he had imagined, and the head teacher met them personally, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she gave them the guided tour. It had a strange atmosphere, almost creepy without any students to fill the hallways, and Robin knew that once upon a time he would have reveled in it.

"We've struggled on as best we can," Miss McCauley said. "But it really is becoming a safety hazard. We're very lucky to have been allocated the funds to replace the system."

Robin looked around him, at the ornate carving and the high ceilings, and doubted that luck had anything to do with it. He couldn't imagine the place suffering the same funding shortfalls as Stokely Grammar. Still they trailed after her obediently, and nodded in the right places, and when she was gone Paul and Ian nudged each other and grinned,

"She's a bit of alright, isn't she?"

The job should have been like any other; lots of doing what he was told and getting his hands dirty. That first day there was no reason to think it wouldn't be. Except the place made a lot of noise for a school in the midst of summer holidays, and every time he turned around, it felt like he had almost caught sight of somebody watching him. The twins seemed oblivious, and his dad wasn't in the frame of mind to notice much of anything.

He found himself wandering the corridors on the third day, until he found himself in a well equipped art room. It felt like an eternity since he had last had any interest in picking up a pencil. He hesitated for a long moment, felt stupid, then went for it anyway, until time was slipping by unnoticed, and the shadows outside were lengthening.

"You have talent," said a dark voice and Robin whirled around, heart pounding in his chest at the shock of it. He ought to apologise for being there, he thought wildly. He ought to be helping his brothers with the pipe work. He glanced at the paper, at the turrets of Garside Grange silhouetted against the skyline. When he turned back the man was gone, and though he searched, there was nothing to confirm he hadn't just imagined it.

That evening, on the way back to the hostel, he bought a sketchbook while the twins stocked up on energy bars and fruit juice, and sat on his cramped bunk long into the night, trying to capture the face he had seen staring at him.

It was an accident, really, but there was another room booking and he had to leave his things somewhere. Miss McCauley visited to check on their progress, and when she asked, his father stared at the page in shock, and said that he ought to be at art college. He squirmed uncomfortably under the scrutiny, the complete opposite of how he would have once reacted, but Miss McCauley nodded her agreement and said,

"I didn't realize they were back; have you met Mr Count as well then?"

Robin had spent months dreaming up scenarios in which he and Vlad might meet again. At first he had been certain that Vlad would only be gone a few days, then that he would visit him at the first opportunity he got. As days turned into weeks, he waited for a letter, a phone call. It had taken months for the reality to sink in.

As far as Vlad was concerned, their friendship had meant nothing.

The meeting was awkward. The twins didn't remember, simply gazed dopily at Ingrid and accepted the web of lies they were woven. His dad was either oblivious or unfeeling to the Count's baiting, and the man he had seen the day before watched them all impassively. Vlad refused to even meet his eye, his hand curled possessively around the arm of a girl Robin could tell at a glance wasn't a vampire.

Sometimes he had told himself wearing the crown had made Vlad evil. Or that his position was too precarious for him to be seen fraternizing with the enemy. He had excused Vlad a thousand times over. In return Vlad scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor and asked blandly,

"How have things been in Stokely?"

Once they had meant everything to each other. Had shared every moment they could, every new experience. Vlad had once told him that his life wasn't worth living without him. Perhaps he had been expecting hugs and laughter. Tears and apologies. He wasn't equipped to deal with indifference.

"Same as always. The suburban nightmare," he managed, mortified at how strained his voice sounded. "I never forgot," he added, and Vlad looked up at him, sharply, before looking away again.

"It would be better if you had," he said, words quiet. It cut like a knife, worrying at wounds he had thought long since healed. He felt sick, more humiliated than angry, and they simply stood a moment longer in awkward silence. Two strangers with nothing to say to each other.

"The crown is a heavy burden upon him," a familiar voice told him when they had both made their lackluster excuses, the figure moving to sit beside him in the darkened corridor. "You shouldn't judge him too harshly."

Robin said nothing, didn't trust himself to answer. The man leaned closer, spoke almost in an undertone,

"I saw your portrait. It was most – flattering."

He swiped his tongue against suddenly dry lips, muttered something self deprecating. The man was a vampire. He wasn't a starry eyed twelve year old anymore. Nothing good could come of the conversation.

"Nonsense," the other man murmured, touching cool fingers to his shoulder, so that Robin couldn't help but shiver in spite of himself. "It has been a long time since I last saw my reflection, sometimes it's a struggle to remember. Perhaps you might accept a commission?"

It was a terrible idea, for a hundred different reasons, but Robin couldn't help himself. Nodded his agreement and lapped up every word of praise Bertrand was prepared to bestow on him. His heart hammered in his chest hopelessly – pathetically – and he dragged the process out as much as he dared, keenly aware of how long it had been since anyone had simply been willing to spend time with him.

His father warned him to be careful in low tones, then apologized abruptly, and told him he had his blessing to do whatever he wanted. It was what his mother would have said, and all they could do now was honour it. Still he refused to take Chloe's worried phone calls, and instead let Paul laugh into the handset, airily telling her that Robin was a big boy, and that his personal opinion of Bertrand didn't matter, because 'beggars can't be choosers, can they?'

What was assumed by his family wasn't what was actually happening, however, at least not until the night he finished the picture and he asked abruptly,

"Do you ever miss being human?"

Bertrand looked startled, mask slipping, and Robin couldn't explain how he knew, just that he was certain of it. The man's pale fingers were a fraction too tense on the stem of his wine glass, and his eyes clouded for a moment, gazing into some other time, and then he was in control once more and Robin held his breath without realising it.

"You're not as intolerable as most of your kind," Bertrand told him, something in his tone making Robin's heart pound in hopeful expectation. The press of lips against his own was near too thrilling for words, though he surely would have found something to say had Vlad not chosen that moment to interrupt and tell Bertrand his assistance was needed. Bertrand gave him a parting look, cool like nothing had happened, and the following day it was Miss McCauley who told them that Bertrand was off on a visit to Romania.

It would never have come to anything he told himself later, when the job was finished and he stared numbly out of the van window. Bertrand was older, and smarter and a bloodsucker, and even with that disadvantage he would still think Robin a loser. Everyone else did.

The others gave him a wide berth when they got back to Stokely, let him try and deal with it in his own way. When it became obvious that wasn't working, the twins insisted he go on a night out with them, and he drank so much he could scarcely stand, and swore that when he went outside for some fresh air he saw Bertrand from the corner of his eye, watching him.

He pulled himself together, got on with his work and collected all his certificates, though it wasn't what he wanted to be doing. His dad apologised to him in the aftermath of his final exam, and told him that he had seen a doctor and joined a support group. That he had thrown away the bottles and would be alright; Robin had to live his own life.

It felt strange, having to prove he was capable of something other than getting a job done while making as little mess as possible, but his tutors told him that he was a natural. He made friends, and earned good grades, and the first time his work was exhibited his dad put a hand on his shoulder, and said,

"Your mother would have been so proud of you."

Vlad sent him a letter, because he got his name in the papers, and he read it over and over again, about how Vlad had thought he was only acting in his best interests, and that he was sorry and that he hoped he was happy now. Robin didn't understand most of it, and when he finally lost his temper and tore it into pieces, he decided that he didn't want to.

He wrangled another exhibit, and then another, and at the latter he stayed long after everyone had gone, wondering if this was really the turning point, and if he could find someone to share it all with, if things really were going to start working in his favour. He sat and pondered until he heard footsteps echoing on the polished floor, and he made to stand, and to apologise, but he wasn't fast enough and instead somebody dropped down to sit gracefully beside him.

"I told you you were talented," the figure said, and Robin took a moment to simply gape before saying,

"I didn't expect to see you here."

It was an understatement, a huge one, and though he tried to be nonchalant his pulse was racing, and his stomach felt as though it was turning somersaults.

"I thought artists thrived on the unexpected."

There was silence then, heavy and uncertain, and Robin was surprised when he wasn't the one to break it, and Bertrand answered his unspoken question, the one about why he was really there, with,

"I miss it all the time, I simply refuse to acknowledge it."

"What's changed then?" Robin asked eventually, the waiting unbearable. Bertrand simply smiled at him, wistful, and said,

"All of us dance to someone else's tune, Robin."

It was too cryptic, too confusing, and Robin settled instead for pressing their lips together, only half certain he wasn't about to get bitten. Bertrand kissed him back, icy hands pushing under the fabric of his shirt, so that he couldn't help but shiver all the harder.

"Do you trust me?" Bertrand asked, dark and sinful.

"I don't trust myself," Robin answered, truthful, and though it wasn't much it seemed to be enough for Bertrand to keep returning, night after night until they had some kind of understanding, and he could stand at his mother's graveside and  _know_  that she was proud of him.

He was happy.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, feel free to chat / hit me with prompts over on Tumblr [@serenwib](http://serenwib.tumblr.com/) or Twitter [@falsteloj](https://twitter.com/falsteloj). :)


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